


needs of the one

by purple01_prose



Series: and that's what growing up can do for you [3]
Category: Transformers Aligned, Transformers: Prime, Transformers: Robots in Disguise (2015), Transformers: War for Cybertron
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Aftermath of Violence, Autistic Character, Caretaking, Dark, Gen, Kidnapping, Neurolinguistic Programming, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Profiling, Psychological Trauma, Stimming, Strongarm Defense Squad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-31
Updated: 2015-07-31
Packaged: 2018-04-12 06:57:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,340
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4469603
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/purple01_prose/pseuds/purple01_prose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Companion piece to past midnight. Once Bee realizes how deeply they're in trouble, he calls in the cavalry and gets more than he'd expected.</p>
            </blockquote>





	needs of the one

**Author's Note:**

> Slight warning for Praxus mentions--nothing too explicit.
> 
> I'll be entirely honest, I'm never entirely sure about how I feel about Prowl on any given day. I tend to despise him in the IDW continuity, and I'm largely indifferent to him in other TF incarnations. Prowl here is meant to be a mix of his IDW persona and what I am given to understand from the Aligned 'verse. So fair warning for that.

“ _Many have stood their ground and faced the darkness when it comes for them. Fewer come for the darkness and force it to face them.”_ Eliezar Yudkowsky

* * *

  

“There’s been an incident.” Jazz didn’t bother knocking—this was too important for Prowl to decide to grant him entrance.

 

“Define incident,” Prowl replied, looking up from his datapad.

 

“One of Bumblebee’s team has been kidnapped.”

 

Prowl froze, and it was only through the extensive working relationship that he and Prowl had had that Jazz saw the slight twitch of a doorwing. “Which one?”

 

“Does it matter?” Jazz waited a beat for adding, “Cadet Strongarm.”

 

Prowl’s fingers twitched, and then he was up and moving. “Contact Ratchet, I need him from Iacon as soon as possible. He has the necessary skills to perform field surgery on Praxians.”

 

“You gonna talk to the Council?”

 

“I do not have much of a choice,” Prowl said dryly, “they’ll certainly have objections to you, me, and Ratchet leaving Cybertron for Earth. I’ll get it done, you just get Ratchet here.”

 

Jazz snapped off a salute. “Yes _sir_.”

 

“And Jazz? It goes without saying, but we need to be discreet.”

 

“So Smokescreen can’t come along.”

 

“Exactly.”

 

“You know how he feels about his fellow Praxians. Not too dissimilar to you in that regard.”

 

“We need the element of surprise, and that is not his strength.”

 

Jazz grinned. “Yeah, you could say that.”

 

Prowl looked at him. “Do you have any pressing engagements over the next few days?”

 

“None. I’m happy leaving ‘Raj in charge for a week or two, but if it’s longer she’ll be very polite about wanting me to take command back.”

 

“Then let us endeavor to ensure that it can be done.” Prowl squared his shoulders, his doorwings coming up at a stiff angle. “I’ll meet you at the spacebridge.”

 

“Yeah, gotcha.” He watched Prowl turn the corner before he activated the emergency comm. line. “Yo, Ratch, ready to take some vacation time?”

 

“Get me away from all of these law-bots,” Ratchet sighed. “I’m willing to go anywhere at this point.”

 

“Even Earth?”

 

He overheard Ratchet swear, and then the background noise dialed down. “Gimme a klik, Jazz. Need to get away from prying audials.”

 

“Take all the time you need.” Jazz wandered down to the Elite Guard armory while he got a polite dial noise in his ear, and he grinned at the femme arming the desk. She rolled her optics and let him in, and he squeezed her arm in thanks before he went to go find weaponry.

 

“What the hell is going on?” Ratchet demanded once he’d clearly found some space. “Why Earth? I know Bumblebee’s there, but he’d contact me directly.”

 

“One of his team is missing, presumed kidnapped in action. It’s the cadet--.”

 

“Strongarm. Arcee’s kept me updated on Bumblebee’s understanding of her.”

 

Jazz snorted, tucking some industrial-grade tasers in subspace. “That’s one way of putting it.”

 

“So she’s missing, presumed kidnapped.” Ratchet sighed, static blurring the edges. “Is there an ID on the kidnapper?”

 

“Bumblebee has a thought, but he won’t tell us until we’re there for safety reasons.”

 

“Don’t blame him. All right, I need to foist my workload on one of my students and I’ll be there as soon as I can be.”

 

“Don’t have time for you to drive all the way from Iacon to Kaon City, Ratch. Lemme know when you’re ready, and I’ll groundbridge you.”

 

“No problem. Pharma, have you got a minute--?” Ratchet’s voice cut off, and Jazz eyed the blaster mounted on the wall. He’d mostly sworn off lethal weapons after the war ended, his own redemptive effort to keep his hands clean, but if this went badly, it could be helpful.

 

He decided against it. It was going to be Prowl’s game as soon as they got their pedes on the ground, and Prowl worked best without a threat of violence behind him. No, the biggest worries would come from Sideswipe and Grimlock—Sideswipe because he let his concern get away from him and he would react recklessly, Grimlock because he was protective and he got angry—but Jazz was pretty sure Grimlock wouldn’t act in a way that could end up hurting Strongarm; his record said one thing but Jazz saw another.

 

Grimlock cared about keeping his team together. Jazz could use that.

 

Ratchet’s voice crackled in his audial, and he whistled a little as he made his way to the groundbridge. It was hard to tell for anyone who wasn’t a long study of Ratchet, but there was relief hidden by his blustery irritation. His student must have agreed to take over his open cases.

 

“What do we know?” Ratchet demanded as he barreled through the bridge, lights flashing once in agitation. “How is Bumblebee doing?”

 

“He’s shaken, but keeping it together. His other team members are wild cards, so they need to see that he’s in control to keep them in control. Prowl’s talking at the Council, and I don’t doubt that they’ll agree to whatever he says.”

 

“What strings do you think they’d insist on puling?”

 

“I’ve got some thoughts, but I want not to be here to fully air them. Plus, Prowl will have insights of his own,” Jazz said grimly.

 

Ratchet nodded. “Wouldn’t put it past them to...”

 

“Yeah, same.” Jazz ran a hand over his head. “I’ve met her. She’s someone that could follow in Magnus’ footsteps; I could see him mentoring her once she had the necessary experience.”

 

“And Bumblebee’s other teammates?”

 

“Sideswipe, Fixit and Grimlock. Sideswipe’s got a good heart, but he’s got a lot to prove, not exactly helped by Strongarm there. Fixit’s the former warden of the _Alchemor_ , and he does basic maintenance and communications. Grimlock’s their heavy-hitter, another one with a good heart but he doesn’t quite have the intellectual down. He’s good with emotions and reading ‘bots, though, he’s better at it than any of them except maybe ‘Bee. He likes Strongarm well enough—enough to get angry at her being kidnapped.”

 

“And Sideswipe?”

 

“Won’t put it in words, but I think he’d be shaken to the Pit and back. From what it seems like, he and Bee have the main rivalry with Bee’s suspect, not Strongarm.”

 

“So why Strongarm, then?”

 

“That’s the question we all want answered.”

 

“We have the Council’s backing,” Prowl announced as he turned the corner, his wings high and tight. Whatever they’d negotiated him into, he wasn’t pleased, and if Jazz was patient enough, Prowl would unload it to him later. “We have a week.”

 

“A _week?_ ” Ratchet looked ill, and Jazz wasn’t feeling much better. “What?”

 

“A week before they decide to take other action. We have a deadline, so we’d better get to work.” Prowl moved over to the spacebridge—so conveniently located near the groundbridge—and typed in the necessary coordinates. “I have every intention of retrieving her with time to spare.”

 

The spacebridge fired up with a low hum, and Jazz saw Ratchet inhale sharply. “You miss it, doc-bot?”

 

“Never,” Ratchet said, and he walked through first.

 

The bright sunlight of Earth was enough to have them all blinking and resetting their optics, and Jazz was startled when someone threw themselves at him. He barely managed to keep from drawing a weapon when his optics reset and he saw it was Sideswipe, and he relaxed enough to let the kid cling to him. “Everything’s gonna be okay,” he murmured, patting Sideswipe’s back plating. “Trust me, Prowl’s gonna make it all okay again.”

 

Sideswipe let go of him—a little reluctantly—and huffed out a shaky breath. “Yeah, I know. Just. I’m fine, I’m just glad to see you.”

 

“It’s okay to be upset,” Jazz told him, clapping a hand to his shoulder. “She’s your teammate, she’s strong and thinks fast on her feet. If she could be taken, what else can happen? It’s okay.”

 

Sideswipe’s lip plating shook, before he firmed them and straightened his shoulders. He was a good kid, once he got past the bluster. He just needed someone to see that.

 

Once Sideswipe was calm, he and Jazz picked their way over to the rest of the team. Ratchet was kneeling to better listen to Fixit, and Bumblebee was saying, “—pretty sure it’s Steeljaw. We don’t have a lot of information about his history—the _Alchemor_ databases are pretty bare—but he’s shown a certain amount of quick thinking and adaptability, and he’s not against using our team dynamics against us.”

 

“That happened with a microbot,” Grimlock added. He was in root mode, but his fingers were twitching like he wanted to shift. “Sideswipe didn’t believe, but Strongarm did.”

 

“Yes, I see that report.” Prowl’s doorwing twitched as he looked down at the datapad. “Tell me about your previous interactions. Has he ever singled Strongarm out before?”

 

“No.”

 

“Yes.”

 

Conversation halted amongst all parties as everyone turned to look at Sideswipe, who suddenly found the ground incredibly interesting. “What?” Bumblebee said slowly.

 

“Er—the first time we met him?”

 

“Strongarm sent out a distress call before her comm. malfunctioned for wood-hood- _good_ ,” Fixit recalled. “She said it wasn’t a big deal, later.”

 

Prowl’s visor glinted in the sunlight as he pulled up another file on his datapad. “Strongarm’s psych profile doesn’t say anything about her, er, ‘crying wolf’ in the human parlance.” He turned his gaze to Sideswipe, whose field shrunk in. “What happened?”

 

It wasn’t framed like a question.

 

“Not entirely sure how he got the drop on her,” Sideswipe admitted. “Strongarm and me had gotten separated, and when Strongarm didn’t check back in, Russell and me went looking for her. We found a length of chain missing from a truck at a ranger station, and it didn’t take us much to find that he had her holed up in—I think humans call it a windbreak? A lean-to kind of thing? Anyway, he had her chained up and was trying to get information about the team and he was talking about what he wanted, a safe space for all Decepticons here on Earth. She didn’t trust him, and then I conned him long enough for Russell to sneak around and break the padlock on the chain.”

 

“You put Russell _in danger?!_ ” Bumblebee sounded ready to kill, and Sideswipe inched behind Jazz.

 

“It was his idea! Anyway, Steeljaw saw through my con to chase me through the area of forest, and I led him back to Strongarm, who kicked him in the face into a tree. He left right quick after that, though. I don’t think he could take both of us on.”

 

“Probably more like it wasn’t worth the effort to subdue the both of you,” Ratchet commented, his optics narrowed. “If he was able to take out Strongarm, when she would have been alert in the field, then he was definitely capable of taking out the both of you.”

 

Sideswipe’s field flared with unhappiness, but there were other issues at hand. Bumblebee opened his mouth, but Jazz forestalled him. “Lecture him later. We need to connect the dots for why this one interaction caused him to focus on her.”

 

“Yeah, especially when he had stronger interactions with Bee,” Sideswipe added.

 

Jazz looked over his shoulder at him. “You did screw up here. Why didn’t you report it? For the record, why didn’t _she?_ This is relevant to the cases he’s involved in.”

 

“I...might have the answer to that,” it was Bee’s turn to look awkward. “I, er, haven’t exactly given Strongarm the room to trust that I’d still send her into the field even if situations like this occur.”

 

Prowl pinched his nasal ridge, and Ratchet rolled his eyes. “You’ve adopted her, haven’t you.”

 

“You would too!” Bee defended, flailing his hands. “Besides, it’s protocol that in the case of an officer becoming the obsession of a suspect that that officer is then removed from the case.”

 

“And you’ve been so attached to protocol,” Prowl’s voice could have cut through solid steel.

 

“Yeah—well—I--.”

 

“This changes the profile,” Prowl sighed. “Bee, I need a board, something to write on.”

 

“We have those within the command center of the _Alchemor_ ,” Fixit piped up.

 

“Lead the way,” Prowl said, and Fixit led the odd assembly up the ramp. Jazz held Sideswipe behind.

 

“Why _didn’t_ you tell?”

 

“Guess I figured that if she didn’t tell, it wasn’t breaking any rules,” Sideswipe shrugged. He still wouldn’t look Jazz in the optics, but he was more comfortable now that Bee wasn’t yelling at him. “Besides, she got to kick him in the face. I thought it made up for it.”

 

“You were never tempted?”

 

“Maybe if he’d gone after her more? But it’s like as soon as he saw Bee, he didn’t really care about the rest of us. My rivalry with him is more...one-sided.”

 

Jazz hummed as he thought through that, and Sideswipe added, “Jazz? Do you think he’s—do you think he’s hurting her?”

 

“I don’t know enough about him to say whether that fits,” he answered guardedly, “but I think he recognizes if he hurt her too badly, there’s not enough space in the universe to hide for when the Autobots come after him.”

 

Sideswipe relaxed. “Oh, okay.”

 

“C’mon kid. Let’s go make up for your mistake.”

 

\--

 

“We need to discuss the protocol for when he calls with a ransom demand. According to the chronological map, the time he would have captured her would have been between 0200 and 1300, so that means he’s had her for at least an Earth day already. Unless he’s indulging a previously unforeseen yearn for violence, we should get a call within the next six hours.” Prowl tapped the board, exhaustion burning at the edge of his sensornet. They’d been at it for the past three hours, and while he’d been given a certain amount of information that would help profile Steeljaw the criminal, it wasn’t a lot for Steeljaw the kidnapper.

 

“So what do I need to do?” Bumblebee’s optics were dim and his plating was dull; they’d been fueling intermittently but Bumblebee needed to rest.

 

“Keep the focus on Strongarm. He needs to see her as a person, not an object. Demand proof of life, as well. If we can see her, see what her state is, we can better predict how Steeljaw is treating her and what he wants.”

 

“Okay.”

 

“Now rest,” Prowl ordered. “I’ll keep an eye on the commlines, and be sure that I will come get you when we get the call.”

 

“But--.”

 

“That is an _order_ , Lieutenant.”

 

“Yes sir.”

 

Bumblebee toddled off, and Prowl didn’t flinch when Jazz swung over the railing to land next to him. “Speaking of bots that should get some rest...”

 

“Don’t start.”

 

“See, now I know you’re exhausted. You don’t normally indulge in contractions.” Jazz sighed. “At least sit down. You’re about to fall over.”

 

Prowl waited a beat before gently sliding into a chair, flipping his visor up at Jazz. “There, appeased?”

 

“Only barely.” Jazz sat opposite him and leaned back. “You need to talk it out.”

 

“What do you think he’s doing?”

 

“I’m not a profiler.”

 

“Oh please, half of SpecOps is profiling. You’re better at it than I am.”

 

Jazz sighed and leaned forward to rest his elbows against the table. “She’s means to an end, but he’s the only one who knows what that end is. I think he targeted her specifically, so he’s either banking on her relationship to the team or there’s some sort of intrinsic value in her that he needs. Given that her main relationship to the team is Bumblebee, with only secondary relationships to the rest of the team, I’m inclined to think it’s some sort of intrinsic value she holds. But she’s only a cadet, she doesn’t have any sort of especial skill yet or the networks, so she doesn’t have anything to offer him specifically. It doesn’t make a lot of sense.”

 

“Strongarm wasn’t sponsored for the Academy,” Prowl rasped. “She took the entrance exams and did very well for someone who hadn’t been given preliminary training. One thing that kept coming up on her psych profile over the years of training is that she lacks the ability to read social cues. She can fake it when given enough, but she can’t pick up the subtler nuances. That means she’s easier to manipulate.”

 

“Do you think he’d try to turn her against the Autobots?”

 

“She’s Autobot through and through,” Prowl dismissed. “The Academy and Autobot Code are some of the first examples of true structure she’s ever had, and she won’t give that up when she needs it so badly.”

 

“What happens when she finds out the Autobot Code isn’t as cut and dry as it appears to be?”

 

“I don’t think she believes it is. But it _is_ highly structured, and she needs that to function.”

 

“So how do you predict she’ll handle the fallout of this unstructured kidnapping?”

 

“Ratchet has a few thoughts,” Prowl murmured, dimming his optics. “The standard cocktail of PTSD, aversion to touch, malnutrition, and perhaps even agoraphobia is how he put it.”

 

“Her files already list an aversion to touch, don’t they?”

 

Prowl nodded, slipping further down the chair. “Some of her Academy instructors were concerned, but a thorough check into her background turned up nothing. Well, some bots have a natural aversion to touch, there isn’t anything wrong with it.”

 

“Inability to read social cues, aversion to touch...this is starting to sound familiar.”

 

“I concur.” Prowl hid a yawn. “Ratchet thinks the same.”

 

“Does it make a difference?”

 

“Not particularly, except in how we approach her to assist in the handling of trauma.”

 

“All right, recharge now,” Jazz said firmly. He tapped Prowl on the shoulder. “I’ll be here. Things won’t go to scrap while I’m here.”

 

Prowl huffed slightly. “Of course not. What would you call your sabotage missions?”

 

“A plan that paid off.”

 

“Right.” Prowl’s optics flickered off, and Jazz shook his head at him. _Always needing the last word_.

 

He leaned against the command console and turned up his audials. The air was full of sounds from the local wildlife—a few owls and nocturnal rodents, mostly—and he relaxed slightly. The birds wouldn’t be calling if a strange ‘bot was in the area.

 

He heard Fixit before he saw him. “Jazz, sir. Do you think she’ll be all right?”

 

“Dunno, Fixit,” he admitted. “You know her, you get how much she needs structure.”

 

“Oh yes.”

 

“This is the definition of unstructured.” Jazz flipped down his visor to scan the area. Apart from Bee’s team and the humans, nothing showed up on infrared, and he pushed the visor up. “Not entirely sure how she’s gonna react when we get her back.” He looked back at Fixit. “But we _will_ get her back.”

 

“I find that Earth’s sunrises from the command center are beautiful,” Fixit said faintly. “I would like to care—hare!— _share_ them with her again.”

 

Jazz forced a smile for the Minicon. “I get that. Don’t worry. You will.”

 

\--

 

In the end, Prowl only got two hours of recharge. Bee, at least, got three. Jazz had hoped for more, but the console began to ring and Prowl and Bee immediately snapped to full alert. “Ask for proof of life before you enter into any negotiations,” Prowl cautioned as Bee hesitated over the console. “That’s the most important part.”

 

“Yes sir.” Bee activated the call receiver—and the video recording—and Fixit started to work on a trace. “Steeljaw.”

 

“Lieutenant Bumblebee,” Jazz narrowed his optics at the smirking ‘Con, and Prowl stiffened. Sideswipe and Grimlock were on the other end of the scrapyard with Denny and Russell, so at least that chance of blowing these negotiations was gone. “How are you?”

 

“Cut the scrap, Steeljaw. I want my cadet back.”

 

“And I want a groundbridge. It’s _good_ to want things, isn’t it.”

 

“I need to know she’s alive, and I need to see her before we talk business.” Bee’s voice was strong, but Prowl observed how his doors twitched. _Calm down_ , he urged mentally. _Don’t let him have the upper hand._

 

“How’s that trace going?” Jazz asked Fixit quietly.

 

“There’s some kind of subsonic interference,” Fixit said with frustration. “It throws off the trace.”

 

“Frag.”

 

“Oh, I suppose. Just to assure you she’s been handled well in my care.” Steeljaw’s smirk deepened, and Bee’s hands tightened into fists. The screen flickered, and suddenly they heard, “Wake up Cadet. Someone wants to make sure you’re all right.”

 

Strongarm’s face filled the screen, her plating dull and paint chipped. Her optics cycled for a beat, then two, and then they lit up with threat assessment. “Lieutenant! Steeljaw captured me near Route—mmph!”

 

Bee’s engine rumbled at the causal way Steeljaw placed his hand over her lip plating, and Jazz and Prowl exchanged looks. “There’s your proof of life,” Steeljaw informed them, a slight note of strain underlining his vocals. “I’ll contact you in two days for the drop information.” The screen flickered off, and Bee whirled on Fixit.

 

“ _Please_ tell me we have their location, Fixit.”

 

“Negative, sir.”

 

Bee punched the railing, and Fixit flinched at the sound. Prowl came closer, his doors held up high. “Bee, calm down--.”

 

“Calm down? _Calm down?_ He’s going to have my cadet for another two days and we can’t find the fragging son of a glitch!”

 

“Two...days?” Russell’s voice was very small, and they all looked to the clearing in front of the command console. Russell was standing very close to Sideswipe, who looked like he wanted the same comfort. Grimlock’s hands were twitching; a transformation to raging T-Rex wasn’t far off. “Why would Steeljaw want her for another two days?”

 

“I can tell you why--,” Sideswipe cut himself off when Prowl glared at him.

 

“I believe she is suffering the effects of stress and malnutrition,” Prowl rapped out, his tone pure ice. Only Jazz was standing close enough to feel his field—Prowl had gotten used to pulling it in during the war, and even now he rarely let it a few micrometers from his frame—and it was swirling with anger and confusion. Prowl wouldn’t thank him if he placed a hand on Prowl’s shoulder or arm, so Jazz kept his distance. “But I do not believe she has been harmed.”

 

“If he hasn’t hurt her yet, he’s not gonna,” Jazz tacked on for the child’s benefit. “He wants to leave the drop with his plating intact.”

 

“I wanna punch him,” Grimlock growled.

 

“We all do, big guy,” Sideswipe said, patting his arm.

 

“Well you are just gonna have to get in line.”

 

“I think Strongarm gets first shot,” Jazz said tactfully, and Grimlock considered that before he nodded.

 

“So now what?” Bee asked Prowl, his doors relaxing somewhat.

 

“I want Ratchet to look at the recording,” Prowl mused. “He would know, better than myself, to what extent stress and malnutrition are affecting her. Then I want to look at your groundbridge. That is what he stated he wanted, but I am not certain it is stable enough to transport.”

 

“Or even if we should.”

 

Bee’s optics narrowed, and Jazz held up his hands. “Just saying. Look, Bee, a cadet isn’t worth a groundbridge.”

 

“ _Jazz_.”

 

“But,” he continued, eyeing Bee and Sideswipe alike, “she is worth groundbridge schematics. And nobody knows groundbridge schematics better than Ratchet.”

 

The tension bled off a little from Bee’s frame. “Meaning...”

 

Jazz’s visor went down and he smirked. “I do what I do best.”

 

“He means sabotage,” Prowl told Sideswipe and Grimlock in his best long-suffering voice. Jazz flared out his field with a touch of amusement, and he got an equally light touch of amusement in response.

 

“So it can do like Thunderhoof’s spacebridge did? _Sweet!_ ”

 

“Something like that,” Jazz said. “Or we can see if we can include a tracker so we know whenever it’s activated and where the coordinates are. Ratchet, my mech, we’ve got a job for you!”

 

“By the All-Spark,” Ratchet grumped as he came onto the command center. “What do you need?”

 

Prowl glanced at Grimlock and Sideswipe, and then at Bee. “We need you to look a few things over.”

 

Bee understood that look, even if he wasn’t happy about it. “C’mon Grim, Sideswipe. Let’s run a patrol.”

 

“What, _now_?”

 

“Yeah, we wanna know if Strongarm’s okay!”

 

“I will be happy to inform you what’s wrong,” Ratchet said, rolling his optics. “But I need some space to work.”

 

Once the audience had cleared, Prowl called up the recording. Ratchet disregarded Steeljaw and focused on Strongarm specifically. “ _Frag._ ”

 

“What? What is it?” Jazz inched closer, looking for something he hadn’t seen before.

 

“Look at how she’s positioning her doorwings.”

 

“Typically a response to stress,” Prowl observed.

 

“Not that,” Ratchet stabbed a finger at the angle. “He’s probably using something on her doorwings to subdue her. Chain, maybe.”

 

Prowl’s doorwings fluttered unconsciously before he drew himself up. “That is torture under the Tyrest Accord.”

 

“Ever since the Council started slapping on ‘Con brands to criminals, the Tyrest Accord has been null and void,” Jazz said flatly. “He’s already a branded criminal to Cybertron; what’s a few more crimes?”

 

“You think he’s hacked her?” Ratchet leaned against the console, his optics flickering slightly.

 

“Think there’s a chance. He’s had the opportunity.”

 

“What will you require?” Prowl said, not _quite_ ignoring the topic of conversation but he chose to work on logistics.

 

“I’ll need wire, thin metal—might have to rebuild those hinges from scratch, and _that_ won’t be pleasant for anybot involved—SpecOps’ firewalls, and _don’t_ give me that look, Jazz. The rest of the tools I need I already have.” Ratchet tapped his chin. “Oh, and her medical records. If there’s anything I should be aware of before I work on her, I need to know it before I go in instead of being surprised.”

 

Prowl was already tapping away at a datapad. “Done.”

 

Ratchet nodded. “Then let’s get to work.”

 

\--

 

The next two days passed with attempts at busywork. Ratchet and Fixit, at least, _were_ working—prepping what remained of the _Alchemor’s_ medbay was difficult, as in order to do the surgery Ratchet anticipated, he needed as sterile an environment as possible. Jazz helped out where he could, but he was more useful keeping Bee, Grimlock, and Sideswipe distracted. The humans were equally concerned, but Denny chivvied off Russell to play with his friends.

 

That gave Prowl the space to hook himself into the _Alchemor’s_ mainframe. Bee and Fixit had taken thorough notes about their interactions with Steeljaw and his crew, and he immersed himself in the data to create a better profile.

 

Steeljaw had been found guilty of sedition, and Prowl was vaguely disturbed that he could not remember the trial. All trials involving sedition and treason should have come before his desk, but Steeljaw’s did not.

 

So the question became: was Steeljaw a Decepticon before or after the conviction? If he had been attempting to create a new city-state, exempt from Autobot law but following Decepticon legal codes (such...as they were), that meant that Steeljaw was loyal to the cause. If however Steeljaw only became affiliated with Decepticons after his conviction, than that meant he likely matched the profile of a cult leader who wished to separate his followers from the masses for better control.

 

Autobot law ruled that any attempt at secession was an act of treason. He had argued against it, as had many Autobot survivors of the war, but the Council was resolute. At least it did not mean automatic execution, but permanent stasis aboard a prison ship was barely a step away from that.

 

And now he had a cadet, a cadet who had memorized Autobot and corresponding intergalactic law. Prowl steepled his fingers and mulled that over. Strongarm was too valuable in the field to be removed to run law offices, but they had positions that involved applying law in action situations.

 

Ultra Magnus currently possessed one of those.

 

So he had a cadet with encyclopedic law knowledge as well as a unique status within Autobot hierarchy. Cadets—as long as they could answer credibly to their presence—could go most places within any legal or social building and entity as part of building their education. Once they were assigned to a law department, that access was severely curtailed.

 

He did not have enough information, and his plating itched. He _hated_ that.

 

“Yo, Prowl, you ready to give a profile?”

 

“I believe so.” He stood and removed his cable from the mainframe so that he could follow Jazz to where Bee and the rest of his team stood. “Given what you have informed me, as well as his records within the _Alchemor_ —such as they are—I believe that he fits the profile of a cult leader, whose cult is based around his personality.”

 

“There are other types of cult leaders?” Sideswipe muttered.

 

Prowl fixed him with a look. “Indeed. Some use religion, others violence, but in this case he has drawn followers to himself on the basis of what his presence can give them. A sense of safety and belonging; he collects bots who are functionally useful to him and he presents it to them like he is doing _them_ the favor. He can control his group with random outbursts of emotion; the point of random outbursts is to make sure his followers are always treading lightly with him, since they never know when the next outburst is to come. Though he comes across as warm and welcoming, in stressful situations he is quick to raise his voice and lose control, and he uses strategic acts of violence in order to intimidate his followers.”

 

“Yeah, we’ve seen that,” Bee agreed. “So, how do we catch him?”

 

“When he sets up the drop, it’ll likely be in a kill-box, someplace he’s comfortable with but trusting that we won’t be.” Jazz picked up the profile like it was nothing; well, SpecOps typically did this sort of profiling on the fly. “He might have his people there, but I’m guessing not. He won’t risk losing his assets to us.”

 

“He will give us a short amount of time to get the components to the drop area, likely—or so he perceives—making us off-balance as we scramble to retrieve what he wants.”

 

“What do you think he’d do if we didn’t bring the components?” Bee asked, his face creased in thought.

 

Sideswipe raised a hand. “He—said something when we first met. I didn’t really think much of it at the time, but.”

 

“What is it?” Jazz asked, turning to face him more completely.

 

“I was attempting to con him as a fellow Decepticon—kinda badly, actually—and that I hated know-it-all cadets.” Bee shifted, and Sideswipe eyed him nervously before continuing. “He said, um, ‘cadets are great when they’re useful.’”

 

“No,” Russell’s voice was quieter than it had been, but there was determination in it. “He said ‘cadets are wonderful if used properly.’ I remember because it was so creepy.”

 

“He might try to keep her then,” Bee said, horror paling his optics. “If we don’t give him what he wants. Oh Primus.”

 

“He’s not going to keep her,” Jazz intervened. “We’re not gonna let him, okay Bee?”

 

“It sounds as though he sees her possessing some sort of value on her own, not in the skills she possesses,” Prowl mused. “That makes it a bit easier. Bee, what is Strongarm’s top speed if she’s driving?”

 

“Without calling attention to herself on back roads? 65, maybe 70 miles per hour.”

 

“You last noted her beacon here,” Prowl called up a map and set a beacon at her last known location. “She stated Steeljaw captured her around Route something, what is the nearest road with ‘Route’ in the title?”

 

Bee’s optics darkened. “Route 92, about fifty miles from her known location.”

 

“And her walking speed, if we are presuming that the technology that disabled her comm. also acted as an inhibitor field?”

 

“Maybe seven, ten miles an hour.”

 

Prowl mapped out the two routes and then highlighted the area. “His base likely is not far; she would have fought him as he captured her.”

 

“Unless he knocked her out,” Jazz pointed out.

 

“She weighs in at 2.7 tons, and while Steeljaw’s records say he weighs slightly more than that, he likely could not carry her for more than two or three miles. No, she was conscious, and she fought him, meaning that his base has to be somewhere around here.” Prowl marked an area in a slightly different color. “Is it possible to retrieve both topological and photographic maps of the area?”

 

“Yeah, Google Earth exists,” Russell said, scrambling up to the console and starting to type.

 

“What are you thinking?” Sideswipe asked curiously.

 

“Neurolinguistic programming,” Jazz said with a grin.

 

“What’s that?” Grimlock rumbled.

 

“We’re going to get Steeljaw to pick a place _we_ want for the drop.”

 

“That’s possible?” Sideswipe asked with a startled look.

 

“Here,” Prowl decided, stabbing a finger at the map. Russell obligingly zoomed in, and the area cleared. It was a bluff surrounded by forest, not too far from Steeljaw’s base zone. He peered at the English, before he looked to Jazz.

 

“Tree Bluffs,” Jazz translated, nudging Prowl’s arm.

 

“How are we going to program him?” Grimlock demanded.

 

Prowl smiled slightly. “Very, very carefully.”

 

\--

 

“You know what to do?” Prowl inquired.

 

Bee rolled his eyes. “For the tenth time, _yes_ , I understand.”

 

“He will threaten her to make you give in.”

 

“I know.”

 

“Be strong, mech, is all we’re saying,” Jazz said. From his perch on the edge of the console, he looked cool and collected, but Bee read how rigid his plating was. He was just as stressed as Prowl was, but he was probably trying to play it cool for Sideswipe and Grimlock.

 

Him too, Bee admitted.

 

The console call button rang, and Bee answered it. “Ah Lieutenant!” He hit the end call button.

 

Moments later, it rang again, and Bee did the same thing. “Suffering some communication troub--.” He ended the call.

 

That went on twice more, with Sideswipe and Grimlock visibly shifting in place. Grimlock was already in altmode, otherwise he probably would transformed in stress.

 

“ _I WILL KILL HER, DO YOU UNDERSTAND ME?”_

“Communication trouble,” Bee said blandly. “Our apologies.”

 

“You must not care for her in the slightest to make me that angry.”

 

“We have what you want,” he said, ignoring that. “I want your word that it will just be you and none of your crew in the trees. No bluffing.”

 

“I really don’t think you’re in the position to negotiate, Lieutenant.”

 

“All cadets have a training beacon assigned to them,” Bee said coolly—much more coolly than he felt. “If you refuse, if you seed the trees with your crew, I promise you, I will hail Cybertron and firebomb you out. Do not call my bluff on this.”

 

“Would you really do that?” Sideswipe whispered.

 

“I would,” Prowl replied.

 

Over the commline, they all heard it when Steeljaw’s vents stalled, and finally he replied, “Very well. I will be at these coordinates in an hour. Bring the component parts, and don’t be late, and come _alone_.”

 

Bee ended the call as the map lit up, and Sideswipe’s jaw dropped when he saw it was exactly where Prowl wanted it to be. “How did that happen?” he exclaimed.

 

“Repeat the right words in the right order,” Jazz said absently, plugging the coordinates into the groundbridge. “Make it seem natural—if it’s too stilted, the mark picks up on it.” He glanced at Sideswipe. “Normally it takes longer, but if the mark is already stressed, it makes the subconscious a lot easier to manipulate.”

 

“ _Don’t_ misuse this knowledge,” Bee pointed at him.

 

Sideswipe held up his hands.

 

“How soon can we smash him?” Grimlock demanded.

 

“Yeah, about that, big guy. You and Sideswipe aren’t coming.”

 

“What?!”

 

“ _What?”_

 

Jazz gestured to himself, Prowl, and Bee. “We’re veterans, we’ve done this kind of work before.”

 

“Yep,” Bee confirmed, calling Ratchet over.

 

“But you are not, and you could put Strongarm in danger.”

 

“But we’re her team!”

 

Bee’s spark flared with pride at Sideswipe, but he shook his head. “This is not a typical simulation. A misstep could get her killed, and I won’t risk that now.”

 

“But--.”

 

“It’s not an insult, Grim,” Bee told him gently. “But Jazz and Prowl know how to disappear.”

 

“Ratchet’s going,” Sideswipe sulked.

 

“Because Strongarm might need medical attention in the field,” Ratchet snapped. “Is the groundbridge ready to go?”

 

“Indeed,” Prowl said. “Are you prepared?”

 

“As I’m going to be.”

 

Sideswipe and Grimlock held their breath, waiting for the doubtless awful rallying cry, but it was a mark of the gravity of the situation that Bee didn’t even attempt to provide one. They just left, and the groundbridge whined closed with finality.

 

\--

 

“Area’s clear,” Jazz reported. “He kept his promise, at least.”

 

“He requires control,” Prowl said idly. “From the records Fixit has so diligently kept, it is easy to see that he cannot necessarily control his team, and this is a situation that requires iron control.”

 

Below them, Bee was shifting from one foot to the next. They had been waiting for a little over an hour, and Bee was restless.

 

“Head’s up,” Jazz moved the scanner over to Prowl, who nodded and aimed his rifle. Steeljaw came out of the trees, and Strongarm—looked bad. Her plating was duller than it had been, and her optics were offline. It looked _wrong_ to see darkness where the usual bright blue belonged, and her wings were at too stiff an angle. Steeljaw didn’t appear to notice them, but through his visor, Jazz saw Steeljaw smirk. Prowl stiffened when Steeljaw forced Strongarm to her knees, and his doorwing twitched.

 

Bee had his comm. open, so they could hear Steeljaw say triumphantly, “Here’s your cadet. I see you don’t have my groundbridge.”

 

Bee elected to ignore that in favor of, “Strongarm, can you look at me? Look up.”

 

There was a shriek when Steeljaw pulled on _something_ that caused her doorwings to jut up further, and Prowl’s engine rumbled faintly. “Autobot, I lose patience. The groundbridge.”

 

“Steady, Bee,” Jazz whispered.

 

“It’s not stable enough to transfer,” Bee said without a waver. “Given at least one of your team’s technical expertise, you should be aware of the dangers of transporting an unstable piece of spacetime technology.”

 

Jazz zeroed in on Ratchet, who was out of visual and EM range. He was perfectly still, a feat for a mech that hated to be frozen in place.

 

Steeljaw’s smirk twisted into a snarl. “So you just showed up and hoped for the best? Tsk, tsk, Lieutenant , your cadet must not matter to you.”

 

“That is _not_ the case.”

 

“Hold it together,” Prowl cautioned. “Don’t give it away.”

 

“I brought you the schematics,” Bee continued. “With your team, you can build your own. I’m assuming that’s what kept you from another attempt at the spacebridge—that Thunderhoof’s expertise and remembrance just isn’t enough.”

 

“The schematics aren’t worth your cadet.” Steeljaw’s hands tightened, and Jazz nudged Prowl, who shook his head. _Not yet_.

 

“Take the schematics and leave her, or you’ll be walking away with neither. Your choice, Steeljaw.”

 

Steeljaw’s plating tightened and his hands tensed as he glanced down at Strongarm. He opened his mouth, his engine rumbling faintly, and Prowl squeezed the trigger. _Now_.

 

Steeljaw stumbled back a step as Strongarm’s doorwings relaxed slightly, and Bee said, “That was a warning shot. Go for Strongarm’s throat and you’ll be dead before you hit the ground, trust me.”

 

Steeljaw finally looked up, and his optics paled when he saw Prowl with the rifle. Prowl helpfully turned on the laser sight, and Steeljaw visibly swallowed when he saw the little red dot at the center of his chest plating. “You’ll regret this.” His voice didn’t sound threatening when he knew he was in a sniper’s sights.

 

“Probably.” Bee waited a beat before beginning to approach, and in a panic, Steeljaw transformed and sped away. Jazz started to get up, but then Bee called, “Don’t follow! She’s the important one right now.”

 

“Aw hell,” Jazz complained, pushing himself to his pedes. He offered his hand to Prowl, who stowed his rifle in subspace and took it. Prowl brushed at his plating with distaste; Cybertron had its’ own dust, but nothing crept into your seams like organic mud.

 

“Ratchet, we need you,” Jazz said as he sped down the side of the bluff in altmode. “I’m gonna check the perimeter just to be safe, but the cadet definitely needs medical attention.”

 

Prowl followed much more sedately, and he managed not to flinch when Bee removed the chains around Strongarm’s door hinges and she screamed. It was only to be expected; doorwing injuries were heavily debilitating to the sensornet.

 

“Prowl? You gonna come over?”

 

Strongarm attempted to stiffen, but Prowl shook his head. “At ease, cadet.” He hesitated briefly, before calling protocol back to him. “You’ll need to be debriefed extensively, but that can wait until after medical treatment. Are there any immediate injuries that our medic should be aware of?”

 

Strongarm’s field was rife with pain and confusion, and his spark ached briefly. “Just my doorwings, sir,” she mumbled. “And my wrist.”

 

He knelt down next to her. “Have you been hacked?”

 

“I b-believe so.” She breathed in carefully. “At least, Steeljaw informed me that he hacked me shortly after taking me captive.”

 

Anger burned softly but he muted it from his field; she was on the verge of panic and he did not wish to alarm her further. “Not since?”

 

“Not that I’m aware of.” Bee was struggling to find the right switches, but he smiled triumphantly when he found it and Strongarm’s optics lit up in a flare of bright white that faded to blue.

 

“And were you drugged?” Prowl’s optic ridges rose when her optics paled and her field vibrated with panic, and he backed up a bit. Still, it was important to maintain eye contact to be sure she was telling the truth.

 

“Yes sir, twice. He drugged me before we left for here, but it was a drug that limited my frame’s mobility instead of hindering my processor.” Bee’s face twisted with rage, but he, like Prowl, kept it from his field.

 

Prowl would have to have Jazz talk with him to keep him from hunting down Steeljaw and killing him. While it would not be a great loss, it needed to happen in the right way. Bee’s plans for vengeance would definitively be the wrong way.

 

“He didn’t want you fighting him,” Prowl ran that information against the established profile and nodded to himself. “And now?”

 

“I believe my systems have catalyzed it.”

 

“Pain will do that.” He managed a quiet exhale at the thought that it was necessary. “I’ll go tell Ratchet to come over, I do not believe she is capable of walking the distance.”

 

“ _Ratchet?_ ” Prowl felt distant amusement that her vocalizer could pitch that high.

 

“What, you think we weren’t gonna make sure you didn’t get the best?”

 

“Fixit is accomplished, certainly, but he does not have the necessary background in treating Praxians,” Prowl said flatly. “Excuse me.” He moved away from Bee and Strongarm to where Jazz was waiting at the edge of the treeline. “What is it?”

 

“No one else is here.”

 

“So? He said he would not have anyone else here.”

 

“No, I mean literally nothing else. There’s no wildlife here.”

 

Prowl gave him a look. “So...”

 

Jazz rolled his optics. “Look, I get that you don’t know Earth, but generally in a forest environment if the wildlife aren’t around, _that’s a bad sign_.”

 

“So tell me why it’s relevant,” Prowl growled.

 

“I think we need to clear out of here as soon as possible.”

 

“Understood.”

 

“I’ll cover our exit. No reason to make Bee or Strongarm worried.”

 

“I’ll take point.”

 

“Good plan.”

 

They left with all due haste, and Prowl was vaguely aware of how Ratchet and Bee were scanning over Strongarm, contained in Ratchet’s altmode. Jazz drifted over the road to cover their tracks, but nothing was pinging _his_ scanners. Once they got close to the scrapyard, Prowl took a left to allow Bee and Ratchet to enter the scrapyard first, and once Jazz came to a stop he transformed out of altmode. “Well?”

 

“Nothing, but I want to work on the security around here. Fixit’s got the coding for it, this should be better.”

 

“You think Steeljaw and his crew would risk an open assault?” Prowl watched Jazz carefully; Jazz had his visor down, scanning the area with likely every protocol he had.

 

“Don’t know until we know what he wants, so it’s better to plan for any eventuality.”

 

“I think we should go inside now,” Prowl informed him. “I believe the necessary distance has been achieved.”

 

“Yeah, you’re probably right.” Jazz blared his horn once, to warn Bee and Ratchet they were incoming, and they were rewarded by Ratchet’s yell.

 

“I’ve missed that,” he confided to Prowl.

 

“I can see that.”

 

Jazz vaulted over the ramp railing to come stand by Ratchet with a grin. Prowl followed behind him more carefully, and Jazz noted how Prowl’s doorwings were relaxed slightly against his back plating at the way Strongarm was sitting upright on the medberth. So the rumors that Praxians were incredibly protective of their own _were_ true. There weren’t many ‘pre-war’ Praxian frames around anymore—Jazz only knew of Smokescreen and Prowl, though Prowl had once implied that he kept a list. Post-war Praxian frames were built strong and bulkier than had existed before the war; some wounds lay deeper than conscious processor pathways. Smokescreen, for all of his faults, was more expressive than Prowl and loved to guard the newsparks, but Jazz had merely written that off as, well, _Smokescreen_.

 

So Prowl had a spark after all.

 

Prowl held up a hand, apparently oblivious to Jazz’s observations. “At ease, Cadet. You have no need to stand on ceremony.”

 

Jazz knew that voice, and it startled him a little. Usually it was Smokescreen or even on a memorable occasion, Ultra Magnus, who used that voice to calm recruits. Jazz eyed Bee, who raised his optic ridges at him. No, he wasn’t the only one to pick up on that.

 

Jazz listened to Ratchet list Strongarm’s injuries, but he kept his optics on Prowl. While he was outwardly serene, his fingertips twitched once at the mention of the swollen wrist joint. Jazz could sympathize—he had that injury, once. Coping and healing from it took a while.

 

While Ratchet tended to her, Bee turned to him and Prowl. “What’s the plan? For recovery?”

 

“I can stay for about a week,” Jazz admitted. “Then I need to get back to keep ‘Raj from climbing the walls.”

 

“I too have that same time limit,” Prowl agreed, “though Jazz possesses greater mobility than I do. I cannot do my work from here in a timely manner.”

 

“So basically it’s up to me to make sure she keeps to the physical therapy regimen?” Bee inquired.

 

“Hey, Bee, look—she feels safe around you,” Jazz pointed out. “Don’t miss that one. Physical therapy hurts, but she knows you don’t mean anything malicious by it.”

 

“It would be useful if I got some help,” Bee said quietly. “Not necessarily on a permanent basis, but to have an extra set of hands I can trust to lead patrols and missions would be...helpful.”

 

Prowl nudged Jazz with his EM field, and Jazz rolled his optics subtly. “Are there any mental concerns you have?” Prowl asked, stepping closer to Bee.

 

“She needs a friend, someone who’s not in the chain of command.” Jazz appreciated how command had made Bee blunt; he wouldn’t have been able to say that to Prowl before coming back to Earth. “I’m a little concerned about how this experience will, ah, make that worse.”

 

“We won’t know until we get her story,” Jazz said, clapping Bee on the shoulder. “We’ll make sure she’s taken care of.”

 

“Speaking of, she will not be debriefing you,” Prowl folded his arms across his chassis, and Bee opened his mouth to argue. “You are likely to get angry and protective, and while that informs her that you value her, it is not conducive for an informative debriefing session.” He waited a beat for Bee to argue, and when Bee did not, he relaxed somewhat. “But I will not be debriefing her either. She does not relax around me, and that is not helpful.”

 

“I’ll do it, I’ve got the necessary distance and warmth.” Jazz eyed both Bee and Prowl. “We’ll set up an audio link, and Ratchet should be with you two, too. He has Psych training, he can pick up the things we can’t.”

 

Bee breathed out carefully. “Okay. Yes, okay. I can do that.”

 

Jazz grinned at him. “Good mech.”

 

\--

 

He, Ratchet, and Bee assembled at the table upon which the audio receiver rested. Ratchet was tense, if the flickering of his optics were anything to go by, and Bee attempted to relax his plating and battle protocols. Out of the three of them, he was the only one who was outwardly calm, but his spark whirled within its casing. He had sworn to himself that he would allow no harm to befall the Praxian newsparks, like he hadn’t been able to prevent during the war. It was part of the reason why he had placed Strongarm with Bee—if there was anyone who would allow her to gain the necessary field experience while keeping her safe, it was Bee.

 

Yet harm had befallen her.

 

Once Strongarm began to recount what occurred, her voice an emotionless monotone that apparently informed Bee everything _he_ needed to know about her trauma, Prowl’s doorwings rose in a defensive motion. She had handled it well—better than he would have anticipated, having access to her psychological records—but it was clear the experience had changed her outlook. There was a chance for transference for her to Bee, and by extension to Ratchet, Jazz, and himself, and while he was wary of relying upon that, he had wanted to build a relationship with her in any case. Transference was as good a place to start as any.

 

Bee was not as quiet as he was. When Strongarm reached the part about the maglocks and how it aggravated her wrist injury, Bee nearly upended the table.

 

Objectively, Prowl could respect that lack of overt force used—he had done similar things himself back during the war, but the war was over. Steeljaw clearly sought to reignite the conflict, and while the debrief still failed to answer whether Steeljaw identified as Decepticon before or after his criminal branding, it made it clearer that the criminal sought to bring back the kind of conflict Bee, Prowl, and Jazz had worked so hard to end.

 

Prowl clenched his fists. That would not stand. Peace had too hard-won with too high a cost; there was no chance they would allow Steeljaw’s plans to come to fruition.

 

Bee’s engine rumbled loudly at how Strongarm had been drugged and her lack of memory regarding the first incident. Ratchet put his head in his hands; treating her after that would be difficult, since she would instinctively distrust any form of intravenous medication.

 

It was a long conversation, however one-sided it may have been, and Prowl forced his plating to relax once she was done. Bee looked close to going to her side and holding her until he felt she was no longer in danger, and Ratchet’s optics were dim. They’d heard worse stories, but during war it was almost expected. For this to happen to a cadet...it was enough to ping _all_ of their protective protocols.

 

“Her door hinges are new, and will need plenty of exercise,” Ratchet said at last, his voice muffled. “It will be very easy to reinjure them over the next year or so while the wiring integrates with her sensory net, she should be careful.”

 

“I can do that.”

 

“I also think she should have extra rations. I understand that you’re using your energon carefully--.”

 

“We found a way to use solar energy conversion for energon. I’ll be sure she gets extra rations.”

 

“And make sure you eat _with_ her. It will help with reintegrating her to the team, as well as helping her feel comfortable with you.”

 

“Why do you think he tried to...do what he did? Why figure out why she works the way she does and her backstory?”

 

“Steeljaw’s crew...how are they bonded together?” Prowl asked carefully.

 

“Survival, mostly,” Bee’s optics flickered as he ran through his recent memory banks. “It’s easier for them to get what they want if they work as a team.”

 

“Nothing more unites them?”

 

“Not really, no.”

 

Ratchet picked up his head. “He likes control,” he rasped, leaning his head on his hand. “If the bots with you are only with you because it’s better chances than on their own, he can’t fully control them. Once he’s worse than the alternative, they’ll leave—and he will be worse. He needs dependents, the loyal, the faithful, to help keep the others in line. He’s a cult leader.”

 

“So he...he wants her.”

 

“Perhaps. Perhaps not.” Prowl rubbed his temples. “I need to go over her account before I can be certain. In the meantime, _you_ should get some rest.”

 

“I need to check on her.”

 

“Do that and then get some rest. You too, Ratchet. You did wonderful work today.”

 

“Thank you, Mister-Not-A-Surgeon.” Ratchet hauled himself to his feet. “C’mon, kid, let’s go check on your girl before I put you to bed.”

 

“Ratchet, I’m not a _kid_ anymore...”

 

Once they were gone, Jazz slid into one of the empty chairs. “So I vote we kill him,” he said lightly. “Double shot to the spark and helm. Nobody would miss him. It’s not like the High Council cares.”

 

“Bee cares,” Prowl pointed out unnecessarily. “He has Optimus’ need for justice.”

 

Jazz’s optics glittered in the half-light. “He could just...show up dead. I could even arrange it so it looked like one of his people did it.”

 

“As tempting as that sounds...I believe we should allow the system to take its’ due. Strongarm is too rooted in the law for her to find closure any other way.”

 

“I told her you were impressed.”

 

“You did not lie.”

 

“Why are you really invested in her? It’s not just the Praxian thing, though I know that’s a thing.”

 

“Ultra Magnus spends too much time trailing after the Wreckers to fully commit to being part of the judicial process on Cybertron,” Prowl said after a beat. He and Jazz knew too many of each other’s secrets for him to consider holding this one back. “When Bee advances—and he will advance—he will need allies from multiple institutions. I am not concerned about medicine, not with Ratchet and Knockout. But law I am.”

 

Jazz stilled entirely. “You want to overthrow the Council.”

 

“I wish to chip away at their power,” Prowl corrected. “They have made a series of decisions that are strategically unsound.”

 

“Starting with turning the Decepticon brand into a symbol of criminality.”

 

“Indeed.”

 

“Bee doesn’t want to be Prime.”

 

“I never said anything about making him Prime.”

 

“I see.” Jazz lanced his fingers together. “So, what, you want to mentor Strongarm into being the peacetime equivalent of the Duly Appointed Enforcer of the Tyrest Accord?”

 

“Something like that.”

 

“She’s not ready for that.”

 

“Not currently.” Prowl watched Jazz carefully—if anyone could stop his plans, it would be Jazz. It would be silent and no one else would be the wiser. “But this mission will not last forever, and this type of field experience will be invaluable.”

 

Jazz considered that, and then he shrugged. “Lots of things can change between now and then.”

 

“Perhaps.”

 

“And she has the right to say no.”

 

Prowl pursed his lips. “If it is done correctly, she will not.”

 

Jazz smirked slightly. “So then nothing to worry about, right?”

 

Prowl eyed him. “What do you know?”

 

“Nothin’.”

 

“That does not reassure me.”

 

“Good, don’t get too comfy.”

 

\--

 

“I have some concerns,” Jazz told Bee. Prowl had finally given in and proven he was a mech like the rest of them and got some recharge while Ratchet walked Strongarm through the basic exercises for her doorwings.

 

“About?”

 

“I think...Strongarm doesn’t quite realize how PTSD is going to present for her.”

 

“What do _you_ think?”

 

“Prowl’s the profiler.”

 

“Jazz. You have the best emotional intelligence of any bot I know.”

 

Jazz smiled briefly, before he sighed. “She and Sideswipe almost came to blows last night.”

 

“I know about that already, she told me.”

 

“Not surprised. But Sideswipe being himself and her dealing with everything else...I don’t know if we can trust that he’ll watch his mouth around her.”

 

Bee’s mouth tightened. “Got it. I’ll keep them separated.”

 

“At least until he shows some emotional maturity.”

 

“Which could be a while.”

 

“Kid’s got a good spark, but, basically yeah.”

 

“I’ll keep an eye on them.” Bee hesitated. “You have to go?”

 

“Yeah. Sorry, Bee, but we’ve got make the Council think all is normal.”

 

Bee grasped Jazz’s forearm. “I’ll miss you.”

 

“You’ll see me again.” He smirked. “I might even bring a familiar face with me.”

 

“Primus, I hope so.”

 

“You have any preferences?” Jazz waggled his eyebrows. “Like, say, an interface partner?”

 

“Jazz! My cadet was just kidnapped and returned!”

 

“Sounds like you need it.”

 

Bee rolled his optics. “Go away, Jazz.”

 

“Yeah, yeah, okay. Figure out a battle cry, okay?”

 

“Yes.” Bee looked briefly lost. “Keep Prowl from getting buried in work. He’s welcome here any time.”

 

“Oh, I’m _sure_ he’ll be back.” If only to keep an eye on Strongarm, Jazz thought darkly. “Bye, Bee.”

 

“Bye, Jazz.”

 

Across the junkyard, Strongarm shifted from pede to pede. “Um, sir?”

 

Prowl tucked the last datapad away and looked to her. “Strongarm, you have no necessity to call me ‘sir.’ You may call me Prowl.”

 

She looked vaguely mutinous, and he doubted she ever would. “I have a question.”

 

“Ask away.” He deliberately flared his wings in comfort, and she responded by allowing her own to droop slightly. He doubted she was consciously aware; the Praxian newsparks had not been required to learn how to use wingtalk consciously because they did not grow up in a war.

 

“Sir, I was wondering how...you’re known for being, um, cold. Not that I’ve said anything like that! But, um, you’re able to do what Jazz called ‘profiling,’ and I-I...”

 

“You want to know how?” he asked, disregarding the fact that he was seen as cold. He _was_ cold.

 

“I probably could have learned more if I knew how to do it,” she said in a rush. “About Steeljaw, I mean. I don’t...understand it when people do one thing but say another, because I don’t know what’s _true_. If I don’t know what’s true, then I can’t prepare or judge them properly.”

 

He considered her. “I have a substantial part of my processor devoted to strategy and tactics, and so I take most individuals as tactical and strategic actors, based on past behavior. That won’t necessarily help you.” Her wings drooped further, but he continued, “I understand that humans use profiling in their own law enforcement and have written about it as a practice and a psychology. Obviously, it is an imperfect fit, but it should be a good place to start. My personal advice, as someone who’s read your Academy records, is to start with those you know and instead of looking at them as they are, look at them as puzzles, with a variety of moving parts. You excelled at logic puzzles during your education; bots are, after all, little more than logic puzzles.”

 

Her optics lit up and her wings flared out. “Thank you, sir!”

 

Very carefully, telegraphing his movement, he put a hand on her shoulder. She tensed underneath him, but she didn’t step away or flinch back. “If you should have need,” he said quietly, ensuring she was watching him, “contact me. I cannot promise I can attend right away, but I will get back to you in a timely manner.”

 

She nodded. “Yes, sir.”

 

He smiled slightly, and from the way her wings twitched, she understood he did not often smile. “I’m proud of you,” he said clearly. “You did well.” She dropped her optics, her field rippling with pride and touches of shame. “I mean it. You survived and brought back useful information, and you did well.”

 

“Prowl!”

 

“Thank you,” she murmured.

 

He squeezed her shoulder and then turned to go to Jazz. Ratchet had already gone back through the spacebridge yesterday; something about a patient emergency. Jazz waited by the open portal with raised optic ridges. “Not a word,” he commanded.

 

“Wasn’t gonna,” Jazz said innocently.

 

Prowl clasped Bee’s forearm. “Stay out of trouble.”

 

“Shouldn’t I be telling _you_ that?”

 

Prowl smiled at Bee. “You have an excellent team.”

 

“Well, I had great--.”

 

“ _You_ brought them together and forged them into an excellent team,” Prowl said. “Your work. We’ll see you again.”

 

Bee grinned. “Looking forward to it.”

 

On the other side, Jazz cleared his vocalizer. “So, being a good mentor?”

 

“I will actually hit you.”

 

“I think she needs it. Bee’s too emotionally attached.”

 

“That is not necessarily bad.”

 

“Not for how you want things to go,” Jazz agreed, his visor flipping down. “But for right now...”

 

“I understand your meaning.”

 

“Good. Well, better go relieve Mirage. She’s dying.”

 

“A cube at our usual time?” Prowl called.

 

Jazz raised a hand. “How else are we gonna analyze that team’s dynamics to death? Later!”

 

“Later, indeed.”

**Author's Note:**

> With this, this is the end of the completed work I have in this 'verse. I have ideas for later events (that might spiral eventually into a ship), but I'm not making any promises. Prepping for grad school and my final year of university are going to eat up a large portion of my time. _Please_ don't ask when there might be more. This muse is wily and unpredictable as it is.


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